


Open Your Eyes, Make Up Your Mind

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock on Painkillers, favourite songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your favourite song!” Sherlock burst out, in an accusing tone, as John rolled him sideways to free his unslung arm from his coat, tugged it out from under him and let him roll onto his back.</p><p>“You wouldn’t know it,” John half-smirked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Your Eyes, Make Up Your Mind

The pain meds were getting to him, and Sherlock leaned rag-doll heavy against John’s side. It was a half-drag up the steps, a stagger across the landing, a lurch (and an unexpected giggle and a sudden, scolding, “John!”) down the short corridor, and a grunting topple onto bed.

“Your favourite song!” Sherlock burst out, in an accusing tone, as John rolled him sideways to free his unslung arm from his coat, tugged it out from under him and let him roll onto his back.

“You wouldn’t know it,” John half-smirked. Sherlock’s eyes were glassy--when they were open at all--and his lax smile was not merely crooked, but undulating, reminding John of the symbol for infinity.

“Trrrrry me,” he trilled, and attempted a dismissive wave with the arm in its sling clamped with a strap against his torso, reminding John of a T Rex.

John untied each of Sherlock’s butter-soft Prada oxfords and resisted an urge to caress them before setting them on the floor and nudging them under the edge of the bed (really, Watson?, it’s not the time for your perversions), peeled each of the silk socks down his calves and flung them hamper-ward. “No One Can Hold a Candle to You,” John said, and Sherlock’s slowed-down mind did not formulate the obvious snide joke before John was able to clarify, “It’s called. It’s pop, and obscure at that. Not your sort of thing. And you were probably only in primary school when it came out.”

“I _know_ it,” Sherlock pouted. His shirt was easy to remove, draped over the bad shoulder, only the one sleeve, and John slid it free.

“Sure you do.” Sherlock’s eyes closed and he hummed. Sleepy beast; he’d be dead to the world momentarily, only to wake in four to six hours in need of a top-up.

A slurry mumble: “Any day now we’ll perish.”

John grinned and went for the fastenings of his trousers. Half-listening, he hummed a noncommital,  _oh yes aren’t you a clever one_  noise.

“These are nervous times.”

“You’re telling me,” John agreed, grabbed the waistband. “Lift up, Baudelaire.”

“I’m Rimbaud and you’re Verlaine,” Sherlock replied. “Mary Lou Lord. Kill Rock Stars. 1993”

“You’re off your head.” The trousers dispensed with, John drew up the sheet and two quilts, laid a hand across Sherlock’s forehead to check for fever. His brow was smooth as it got, his face soft, eyes closed. John regained his full height, kept his eyes on Sherlock’s dozing form as he started to undress.

As he started to slide in beside Sherlock, the low rumble of a voice, murmuring in a cadence akin to poetry. “Open your eyes. Make up your mind: am I Einstein or am I Frankenstein?”

“Shh.” John leaned to press a kiss to his cheek. “Hush and get some sleep.”

Sherlock fell quiet and still; John clicked off the lamp and settled his head on the pillow, his bare arm against Sherlock’s uninjured one. John caught Sherlock’s bent pinky beneath his own.

“No one can hold a candle to you when it comes down to virtue and truth.”

Sherlock yawned. John grinned into the dark. Didn’t he just have to get the last word? Of course he knew John’s favourite song. Of course he’d heard it. Of course he’d committed it to memory. He could probably play the proto-Marr guitar part on his bloody violin. John found his shoulder in the darkness and kissed him there, too.

“No one can hold a candle to you and I. . .”

“ _Shh_.”

“I dim next to you.”

 

*

No One Can Hold a Candle to You by Raymonde

Western Union Desperate by Mary Lou Lord (Kill Rock Stars, 1993)


End file.
